Thursday, August 15, 2013

a real book made of paper

I am sitting comfortably on a wire chair with
my feet up, on this beautiful morning,
the fifteenth of August. It's
surprisingly cool, the morning, not the chair. A few puffy clouds
are in the sky. I am not sure
what I will do with the remainder of my life.
Will I get married? Will I have
children? Will I have a home in the
woods? From where I am sitting on this
porch, I can see a portable toilet. It's so blue. I has a white roof. It is parked in front of a one-car
garage. It has a little black
chimney. There is a tall, old oak tree
behind it, but I cannot tell you which specie of oak it is. Is it a pin oak? A white oak?
I don’t know my oaks. I don’t
know my pines either. Donald Rumsfeld
once said that there are known knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns. I wonder what the unknown unknowns of my life
are. It’s possible that I will become
enthralled by a hat this afternoon. It’s
possible that this will be another ordinary day, one that I will not remember.

Jacob wrote to me the other day and told me
that he wished he could have a collection of my essays, in book form, to have
and to hold, a real book made of paper.I
would love that. I have dreamed about that for a long time. But will that book happen?Is there a publisher out there
who would want to publish a collection of lyrical essays about botany and the
life of the self?I have no idea.I hardly know how I will spend the remainder
of the morning.This is only a note to
say hello to the world.Hello world whose trees I cannot identify on this surprisingly cool morning.Hello portable toilet.Hello vacuum cleaner sounds arising from the
hospital.My next objective is to make
some toast and spread a bunch of peanut butter onto it.Beyond that peanut butter toast, I have no idea. I hope I do become enthralled by a hat, and I hope the hat is huge.